Out of Step
by Lint
Summary: He stands there a beat longer than need be. Watching. Wondering. (Post "Let's Kill All the Lawyers" what if.)


She moves in without much fuss.

Coming back from Africa one day, and leaving Lisa's the next. It's his suggestion, an offer made after finding her asleep under the conference table, using a duffel bag as a pillow. Maggie taking it, ever so reluctant, as with most things involving him.

It's his insistence, that she take the bed, an argument more heated than he ever would have assumed for attempting to be the gentleman. But scathing accusations of pity, and handouts, are fired his way with such force he can hardly think to duck. It's begrudging acceptance that wins out, however, a calm and steady stance all it took for victory.

He gets used to sleeping on the couch. Late nights with the TV in the background and phone in hand, always checking for last minute news feeds, only allowing himself to drift off once he knows she has.

She's in he kitchen making toast, when the first breath of morning draws his eyes open, shifting to catch her eye just over the counter. A familiar nod hello, before focus goes back to the counter bound appliance, as he swings his legs over the edge and pushes himself up.

There's a cup of coffee on top of an old magazine, black, and piping hot. He doesn't assume it's waiting for him, even if she has one of her own already in hand.

"Don't be an idiot," she says without turning around, knowing his thought process. "Of course it's for you."

He smirks, though she can't see, makes for the cupboard with feet sliding along cold linoleum. Careful not to touch, to brush, any part of her. He grabs a box of Captain Crunch and few packets of sugar she's always stealing from random diners.

Sitting at the table, he watches as she finishes the last bite of her toast, quick to put another two slices into the toaster.

"That's my bread," he says without malice, spoon lifting to his mouth.

It brings out the smallest hit of a smile on her lips.

He thinks it might be a good day.

/\

They never arrive to work at the same time.

A quirk he doesn't begrudge her, lingering in the lobby a few extra minutes, waiting for the next elevator.

Though everyone is aware of their living arrangement, no one says a word. A few knowing looks, maybe. A curious eyebrow here and there. The not so secret crush finally coming to some kind of fruition. It isn't the case, however, not that anyone's assumptions give him cause for correction.

She's already at her desk when the door dings his arrival, Neal offering a good morning wave in passing, before he slings his bag on the top of his own desk and marches straight into Mackenzie's office.

/\

Her hand brushes his, passing along freshly printed copy, and it's a singular moment that makes the hair on his neck stand on end. She makes a point to take no notice of the contact, and he accepts that, but takes pride in that she doesn't tell him not to escort her over to Will's office, which he does without realizing.

The intrepid reporter greets her at the door like a therapist awaiting a patient, though Jim knows the older man would never concede to such a comparison, and looks at him expectant.

"Right," he says, ducking his head sheepishly and taking a step back, Maggie passing him and going inside. "Um, Mackenzie wants to see you when you're done."

"Noted," is Will's reply, closing the door.

He stands there a beat longer than need be.

Watching.

Wondering.

/\

Prep meetings are hit and miss.

Some days she's a Lioness, fighting for stories with a fierce ambition. Others, she's a gazelle, timid and doubtful of her instincts.

She's a predator today, voice strong and firm, fighting readily for piece on police corruption in small town South Carolina. She makes valid points, has facts and well thought rhetoric, and is rewarded with a segment on the night's broadcast. She takes her seat triumphant, looking at him, his reply a proud smile.

He'll leave an apple on her desk later.

_A+_

Job well done.

/\

She eats lunch by herself.

On the balcony where they'd connected once upon a time. Always some kind of noodle bowl and the result of a random button press from the soda machine in the break room. It's no secret she can be found there, every day, but he checks regardless.

Not that he thinks she's the type to jump, or anything so morbid, but she carries a lot of weight and he worries what will happen when she decides to drop it all.

He never joins her.

He knows better.

/\

There's one last box at Lisa's.

Full of random things Maggie said to toss, but for whatever reason, Jim didn't relay the message saying he would come get it. An errand put off for nearly a week, he finally found some free time today, of all days.

Seeing her is as awkward as he thought it would be, painfully so, the rom-com encounter he silently hoped for dashed upon eye contact. They haven't spoken since she sent him that link, any would be denials dying at his fingertips, no rebuttal for something she'd been accusing him of since they started dating.

The box in hand, his eyebrows lift, desperate for something to say. She doesn't offer anything either, but the look on her face speaks volumes.

_Did you ever really like me? Did you even care at all?_

Yes, he wants to say. But no matter how much I did, how much more I wanted to, you weren't her.

A rare flash of self preservation keeps him from uttering any such painful truths aloud. Instead he just nods, lifts up the box for good measure, and heads for the door.

"How is she?" Lisa asks, once his hand grips the knob.

Traumatized, he thinks. Desensitized. Running with a clear case of PTSD. She still has nightmares, still has panic attacks, which he tries like hell to keep regulated. Always the one to make sure she has a pill on her, even when she claims they aren't needed.

He wants to tell her this. Because they were best friends before he came along and mucked it all up.

"Still breathing," he says instead, pulling the door open.

One step into the hall before: "You really love her don't you?"

He doesn't know how to answer that. Everything he does, and all the things he will do, would draw anyone to the same conclusion. He'd always thought real love to be reciprocal, that his feelings were always a bit one sided, because Maggie is never willing to share hers when he wants her to.

Looking back to her, mouth about to attempt a response, his face must already tell her what she needs to know.

"Thought so," she says softly.

He leaves before she can say anything else.

/\

The night's broadcast is surprisingly mundane.

No terrorist plots to report. No governments overthrown. No mad gunmen massacring middle America.

Will doesn't say anything he must retract. Sloane doesn't fumble with her words when commenting on things other than the economy. The weather is reasonable. The Dow closed on a high.

Maggie doesn't beam, as she once might have, when Neal informs that it's her story that garnered the most responses in the comment section and on Twitter. But he can see it in her eyes. She's as happy as her current form will allow.

There are drinks after work.

Same old bullshit and small talk, but he indulges in more than a single beer because the day was actually bearable. Maggie doesn't join them, which is no surprise, but the brief stop at his desk before leaving and telling him she'll see him at home is a moment he holds firm in his heart.

Good fortune in his future.

/\

Maggie is already in bed when he walks into the apartment hours later.

He's conscious not to make any noise, which of course means the act of placing his keys on the hook, or setting his bag in a chair, sounds like a second act of the metropolitan opera. The door to the bedroom is cracked, and he listens close for signs of stirring, only moving again with the assurance that he hasn't disturbed her.

Sinking into the couch, he checks his phone out of habit, before setting it on the table as his head tilts back toward the ceiling. He counts to ten, then shifts forward to remove is shoes, tie, and anything else weighing him down.

Too tired to get pajamas, he stretches out in his pants and undershirt, wondering what Maggie dreams about these days.

Wondering if he's a factor.

/\

Something brushes against his fingers, arm stretched over the edge of the couch, as his eyes squeeze in contemplation rather than opening outright. A sharp intake of breath, he rolls back slightly, one eye cautiously peering open.

"Maggie?" He asks, her form not quite coming into focus as she hovers above him.

She doesn't answer, continuing to stand there, her bare thigh still pushing against his hand. Slowly his eyes adjust well enough to see her hands are bunched at her sides, bottom lip caught between her teeth, that she's only wearing underwear and a form fitting shirt.

"What's wrong?" He asks, shifting to sit up, but she leans forward to push him back down.

Her face is inches from his, and he almost holds his breath so as not to scare her away, they haven't been this close since the kiss drove it all to hell.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he goes on in a whisper.

She shakes her head.

He doesn't know what else to ask, frozen by proximity, not brave enough to reach out and draw her in. She has to do it, she has to let him know it's alright. She moves to lay against him, toes pointed against the top of his feet, hips two puzzle pieces trying to fit. Her hands move to his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones, lips lingering so close to his in a not quite kiss.

A moment stretches into eternity, before she shifts her head against his shoulder, hands bunching the fabric of his shirt between them.

He knows what happened to her.

A naive American girl, caught in a war torn and ravaged land, it doesn't take leaps and bounds to figure it out.

He didn't say a thing when she chopped off all her hair. Kept mum when her style of dress shifted from prep school casual to seven sisters militant.

He's gotten good at knowing when to stay quiet. When not to ask her questions. Despite the endless stream forming in his mind, his mouth remains still.

"Jim," she whispers and nothing else. Just his name, mouthed against the cotton of his shirt, the sign he's been waiting for as he wraps his arms around her, pressing a kiss into that cropped hair.

She doesn't need him. Has said so countless times. Yet she takes his offers when they present themselves, and continues to do so, over and over because he will never stop being there if he has even the slightest inclination she might want him to be.

Lisa's statement echoes back at him.

There's no denying it now.


End file.
